Page 2 of Claimed By The Club
Time’s running out.”
My pulse thrums.I start to type a response, something scathing, but common sense kicks in. If they know where I am, they haven’t shown up yet. Better not poke the bear. Instead, I silence my phone and shove it into my purse. I tell myself I’ll deal with it later.
A few hours crawl by while I pace the room, rearrange my few belongings, and mentally debate my next move. My old instincts—organizing business plans, scanning financial statements, setting up meetings—don’t apply here. My chest tightens with the memory of my bright, polished life. The collaborations with big brands, the media coverage, the hustle and excitement of building an empire from nothing. Jen was a part of it all, right by my side, making me believe we were unstoppable. Turns out she was unstoppable in the worst way.
Hunger drives me out into the evening air. The sun sinks behind distant hills, painting the sky in purples and oranges. A battered sign across the main road advertises a place called Ironwood Bar & Grill. It’s a short walk, so I lock my room and head that way, weaving through a few parked trucks. The temperature has cooled, but the air still tastes like dust.
I pause outside the bar’s entrance, scanning for suspicious motorcycles. I see three lined up near the curb, but none have symbols I recognize. Then again, I’m far from an expert on outlaw MC culture. My heart thuds as I remember the text threats. Any one of these bikers could be connected. But I’m starving, and I can’t cower in my room forever.
Inside, the bar is dimly lit and smells of fried food and beer. Neon signs flicker near shelves of bottled liquor. There aren’t many patrons, just a handful of folks scattered around. A pool table in the corner stands empty. I slide onto a stool at the counter, doing my best not to look spooked.
A tall bartender with a scruffy beard ambles over. He has tattoos running down both arms, some kind of swirling serpent design. His expression is friendly enough, though. “What can I getcha?”
I lick my lips, scanning the menu taped to the countertop. “A cheeseburger. Fries. And a Coke, please.”
He nods. “You got it.”
While I wait, I check my reflection in the mirrored panel behind the bar. My skin still shows signs of stress—a fainthollowness under my eyes, tension across my forehead. At least my makeup hasn’t completely melted off in the desert heat. I smooth my hair, telling myself appearances still matter—even in the middle of nowhere, confidence is power.
A woman two seats down lifts her gaze toward me. She’s wearing ripped jeans, heavy boots, and a faded black T-shirt. The patch on her vest reads RENEGADE CROSS MC, a stylized skull in the background. Her dark hair is braided over one shoulder, and there’s a certain coolness in her posture, like she expects the world to give her trouble and she’s more than ready to handle it. I swallow, remembering the name from whispered rumors. Renegade Cross is a local biker club that some folks respect and others fear.
She arches an eyebrow, then takes a drag from her cigarette. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”
I force a polite smile. “I’m passing through.”
“You don’t look like a local.” She exhales smoke in a thin stream, eyes never leaving me. “Not to be rude, but you’re kind of…shiny.”
I let out a short laugh that I hope sounds confident. “What can I say? I like to dress well, even if I’m sweating bullets.”
She nods, considering my words. “You got a name?”
“Sierra.” I pause, deciding whether to volunteer more, but something about her gaze keeps me cautious.
“Marian,” she offers, flicking ash into a nearby tray. “You’re at the Desert Rose, I bet. It’s the only motel worth half a damn in this town.”
My burger arrives, cutting off my reply. The smell of melted cheese and grilled onions makes my mouth water. I thank the bartender and dive in, hoping to calm my frazzled nerves with every bite. Marian studies me between slow drags, her expression unreadable.
“You staying long?” she finally asks.
“Not sure,” I answer between bites. “Might be a few days. Maybe more.”
Her eyes narrow. “Well, watch yourself. Small towns have big ears.”
Her cryptic warning sends a shiver across my arms. I guess she knows I’m running from something, but she’s not prying. Relief and anxiety tangle in my stomach. The last thing I need is someone digging too deep. At the same time, it feels nice not to be completely invisible.
I drain half my Coke, savoring the sugar rush. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She stubs out her cigarette, slides off her stool, and tosses a few bills onto the bar. “If you need anything, I’m around.” With that, she strides out, her heavy boots echoing on the worn wood floor. The door swings shut behind her, and I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
My gaze flicks to the parking lot through a small window. Marian walks past a cluster of bikes, pausing at one with a black-and-silver flame design. She runs a hand over the seat, as if checking for dust, then settles onto it like it’s an extension of her body. The engine rumbles, and she speeds off into the night, leaving me with a swirl of questions and a gnawing sense of curiosity.
I toss a few extra dollars on the counter for the bartender, grab my to-go box—half of this burger will make a decent breakfast—and exit into the cooling desert air. The quiet swallows me, a sharp departure to the pulsing city life I’m used to. Here, everything feels raw and uncluttered. Even though I’m stressed, I notice the sky glittering with stars that never show up in a place like Los Angeles. It’s mesmerizing, almost enough to distract me from my predicament.
By the time I reach my motel door, my phone has several more notifications. I stand under the flickering exterior light,fish it out, and force myself to read. There’s a chilling voicemail from a stranger demanding I come up with the money or else. My finger hovers over the delete button. With a slow breath, I save it instead. Evidence, if I ever need it.
Stepping into my room, I chain the lock and lean against the door. Adrenaline thrums in my veins, the reality of my situation creeping in again. I escaped the city, but I’m not out of danger. Yet, there’s a glimmer of hope in this desert. Maybe I can find the help I need. Maybe I can strike a deal with the right people to cover the missing funds or at least buy me enough time to piece my life back together.
I place my leftovers on the table, drop onto the bed, and kick off my flats. The low dron of the air conditioner lulls me into a hazy calm. My eyes close, and a swirl of images flickers behind my eyelids—Jen’s smug smile, a ledger full of red numbers, threatening phone calls, desert highways stretching forever, and that Renegade Cross patch on Marian’s vest.
